Parasol (Household Objects, Chapter 2)
Title: Parasol (Household Objects, Chapter 2)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing.
Word Count: 5,000 this chapter
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later.
Sam frowned over his yogurt parfait with granola.
It was day three of this bullshit. And he was getting curious.
And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?
Yeah.
Cas, over on the other side of the booth, held a cup of coffee. Because even though he routinely refused food, Sam and Dean made him order a cup of coffee so he wouldn't look like a complete douche.
Dean, deep in the back of the U-shaped booth, was cramming his greasy six egg Spanish omelet into his face. Sam was pretty sure he could literally hear his brother’s arteries hardening.
But it was Cas who intrigued him. Sam had made a rule for himself concerning his brother and his angelic guardian: don't ask. Because, between the two of them … well, it just seemed less of a headache to stay out of it.
But it had been three days - 72 hours - and now he was getting curious.
And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?
Cas himself wasn't the problem. He didn't eat anything, so it wasn't as if he was costing them anything but maybe the extra drag on the Impala. And Dean, who'd been in a bitchy mood lately, was definitely cheerier with the angel around. And Cas, you had to admit, was pretty fucking useful. If you wanted somebody to shut up and go through the microfilms from 1905 to the present looking for signs of werewolf activity, he would shut up and do it. Even if the newspaper articles were in Japanese. As Cas had explained it, Japanese was just a language. Well, that didn’t make one bit of logical sense, but OK. And then he had rattled off something about the Tower of Babel, but that's when Sam started to tune out.
Sam just wasn't sure what the deal was, though. Why did Cas bother looking? Why didn't he just do his angel thing? Twitch his nose, or whatever.
And the other thing: he didn't look well. Sam wasn't quite sure what it was, but he had looked shaky that morning when he popped up in that motel room, and he didn't look any better now. In fact, he looked worse, sort of pale and drawn. If he'd been a real human, you would have told him to go to bed for a couple days.
And that was yet another thing: he slept! The first night Sam had found him sacked out in the car, so Sam got some pillows and a blanket and had him sleep on the floor instead. And then they'd just got a cot for him the next night.
Angels don't sleep.
It had gone beyond obvious, to where it was becoming a war of wills between Sam and Dean: Sam wouldn’t ask, and Dean wouldn’t say. But, damn, how stupid did they think he was?
“Casa de what?” slurped Dean, a bit of egg on the corner of his mouth. Sam, annoyed, reached over and flicked it off.
“Kasa obake,” said Cas, who appeared to be warming his hands on his coffee mug.
Castiel looked up at the waitress, who snapped her gum and asked, “Need a warm up, Sugar?”
Cas nodded, and the waitress tipped more coffee into the mug. When she had walked off, he leaned over and asked, “Why does she continually refer to me as ‘Sugar?’ She and I are not acquainted.”
“Think she likes you, Cas,” smiled Dean. Cas looked baffled. “So what’s a casa de whatever?”
“It is basically an enchanted parasol.”
“We’re fighting a magic umbrella?” asked Sam, sputtering raspberry parfait.
“Yes, it doesn’t make sense does it?” agreed Castiel. “They are reputed by legend as benign entities.”
“The umbrellas?” asked Dean, smiling as if this was all a joke. “They’re good Jedi umbrellas, and not evil Sith umbrellas?”
“This is funny?” grouched Sam.
“Maybe it would be funnier if you had a funny breakfast?” mused Dean. “Like some real food?”
“This is real food,” said Sam. But both brothers looked over to the soft growling noise.
Castiel was staring downwards, holding his stomach as if it were guilty of a great act of betrayal. “Why…. Why did it do that?”
“You’re hungry, dude,” said Dean.
“I thought angels didn’t eat,” put in Sam suspiciously.
“Yes, Sam is right, I do not require food,” said Castiel defiantly.
“Aw, c’mon, Cas. I piece of toast wouldn’t kill you,” said Dean, putting some rye toast on a small plate and sliding it over in front of Castiel.
Sam watched Castiel, who stared at the toast. He could swear he could see the angel salivating. But then Cas was pushing it away. “Thank you, Dean. That isn’t needed.” He straightened up in his seat. “There is a belief in Japanese folklore,” he continued, “that inanimate objects which have existed for a period of over a century acquire a spirit.”
“Oh, so ancient stuff? Like our waitress?” asked Dean.
Sam guffawed. He couldn’t help it. Stupid Dean.
“She is a human being, and so is imbued with a soul,” Cas was explaining. He looked back and forth at Sam and Dean. “Oh. It’s a joke.”
“It’s a joke, son,” said Dean, grabbing the toast he had set aside for Cas and cramming it all in his mouth.
Cas gulped, gazing at the toast, and licked his lips.
Something, thought Sam, is not right.
This had been the center of Japantown.
Once. Before California had decided that wartime patriotism entailed rounding up a bunch of American citizens and sending them off to internment camps.
Some Japanese neighborhoods in the big cities bounced back after the war, after the madness was over.
Some, in the small towns, did not.
The proprietor of this building, an elderly man of some wealth, had been trucked off to Manzanar, never to return. Heart attack, according to what Sam and Cas had been able to dig up. Or maybe a stroke. Record keeping wasn’t great. Anyway, evidently as the man had no children, the proper heir was never identified, and so after a decade or two of bickering, the once opulent mansion was boarded up and then forgotten.
“So, is this the kinda place you go to look for a vengeful umbrella?” asked Sam.
“All of the attacks seem to center around this vicinity,” Castiel reported. “And any relics inside would be of the appropriate age. The mansion was constructed around the turn of the last century, so objects inside could potentially be over 100 years in age.”
Sam thought about trying to pick the rusty padlock on the back door, but finally ended up just whacking it with a hammer. It crumbled.
“I dunno,” said Dean. “It doesn’t even look like people bother to break in any more. I think this is a dead end.”
“There are several broken windows up above,” Castiel pointed out, indicating the third and fourth floors. It was one big ass mansion. “They would provide egress.”
“That’s kinda high,” said Dean.
“But it’s an umbrella,” argued Sam. “I mean they … float. Or, something. Cas?” he asked, flapping his hands like wings.
Castiel scowled. “That’s not funny, Sam,” he grumbled, opening the door and stalking inside.
“What did I say?” Sam whispered to Dean.
“Later,” mouthed Dean.
They followed the angel into the building. “Whoa!” said Dean, looking up at the high ceilings. And then, “WHOA!” he reiterated, racing over to a dusty glass case. “Is that real samurai armor?” he asked, rubbing a jacket cuff over the layer of dust on the front of the case.
“Based on the time period, it would appear to be authentic,” Castiel informed them.
“This is the most awesome house ever,” swooned Dean.
“Look,” said Sam, directing his flashlight around in the dimness, “this is a pretty big place. Maybe we should divide and conquer?”
“Sounds good!” said Dean. “OK, you start in the basement, Sam, and work up,” he said, shining his flashlight at a dark stairway headed downstairs. “Cas and I will head upstairs and work our way down,” he said, pointing the light at the main staircase. “And we'll meet in the middle.”
Sam scowled. “Why don't I go upstairs with Cas, and you go downstairs?”
Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and sauntered over to the basement stairs.
Sam stared after his brother for a moment and then, nodding at Cas, walked towards the main staircase. They climbed all the way up to the top.
“Boy, Dean is gonna be disappointed he went down instead of up,” said Sam, surveying a glass display case full of katana mounted on a table at the top floor landing. Sam ran a hand over the glass covering the lovely swords. “He loves this samurai crap.”
“You requested going upstairs,” stated Cas.
Ignoring the implied question, Sam said, “Why don't you go thataway, and I'll go this way?” he proposed, sending his light up and down the hallway.
“All right,” said Castiel. He also carried a flashlight, but hadn't bothered to ignite it. “Be careful,” he warned as he walked down the darkened hall.
“What do you do against a monster umbrella?” asked Sam as he watched the angel go. “A silver umbrella stand?” he asked himself. He shrugged and headed off in the opposite direction from Castiel. He paused. Was that a rustling sound? It could be mice. On the other hand....
He crept quietly down the hall, stopping at each door to listen. When he had gotten almost to the end, he heard it again. It was a soft rustling.
Gripping his flashlight like a club, Sam tried the doorknob. He silently twisted it and then suddenly threw open the door, shining his flashlight around the room.
The room's windows were all boarded up, but he noticed the boards covering one of the windows had come loose, so moonlight shown into the room, giving it a slightly spooky light.
And the rustling sound. He immediately aimed his flashlight over to the corner. Nothing was moving right now, so he went over and squatted down. Mouse droppings, he thought. He ran the light along the baseboard, and saw the small crack in the wall. They were chasing a rodent.
Sam blinked. The moonlight suddenly dimmed, as if obscured by a cloud. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck.
And then a soft sound. It was like, snikt, snikt.
He turned.
There it was slightly above him, hanging in the air: an umbrella.
An old, broken umbrella, the cover nearly rotted through, metal ribs sticking everywhere.
And it was … sticking its tongue out at him.
“Uhhhh,” said Sam, shining his flashlight in what appeared to be its single eye. “Konnichiwa?”
And then it was at him, twirling, broken ribs slashing at him. With a scream of, “Cas!” Sam dove out of the way and then scrambled out of the door and went running down the hallway. The thing slashed at him, ripping the back of his jacket, and sending him reeling. He ran back down the hallway and dove behind the display case of samurai swords on the strirway landing, but the thing, like a big mechanical spider, kept coming after him.
Sam was on his back behind the display case, the ghoulish umbrella on the other side. He kicked out with his legs and brought over the display case, smashing the glass. And, he hoped, pulverizing one evil umbrella.
There was silence for a moment. He got to his feet, picking through the broken glass and spilled swords, looking in vain for the remains of his opponent.
Then he heard the snicking sound - snikt, snikt - right in back of him.
He turned and dove out of the way, but this time the thing had him cornered, his back to the wall.
Sam cringed, thinking only Here lies Sam Winchester, killed by a vengeful umbrella. He would have the world’s stupidest epitath! He threw up his hands to cover his face.
And then there was a clash of metal. Sam opened his eyes. Cas stood in front of him. The angel held a blade in his hand: one of the priceless samurai swords from the display. And he was using it to … fence was the only word for it, with the umbrella.
It slashed out with its ribs, which Cas was awkwardly parrying. The samurai sword was a lot longer than the angel blade he normally used, and it seemed to faze him. But it also seemed to annoy the umbrella, which Sam could swear was sticking its idiotic long pink tongue out even farther than before.
The blade and umbrella tines clashed and clashed again. Cas cried out as a tine slashed down his front, making a good rip in his trenchcoat. He jumped back and returned a flurry from the umbrella. And then, almost by mistake it seemed, he landed a slash across the beast’s tongue. He had amputated the tip, and the beast suddenly squealed, spurting blood.
“Cas!” said Sam, who leapt to his feet. “The eye! Aim for the eye!”
Castiel nodded grimly, the front of his shirt and overcoat now a red gash. He charged the umbrella, and there was a furious exchange. Sam, who had lost his flashlight back in the room, saw only steel on steel, glinting in the sliver of moonlight.
And then there was a piercing shriek. The umbrella, a blade lodged squarely in its one eye, whirled and cried. Sam noticed Cas was standing beside him, breathing hard.
“Guys!” yelled Dean, who had just arrived in the doorway. “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed, watching the wounded umbrella.
The kasa obake shuddered, and then erupted into flame.
There was a soft thud as the bloody samurai sword fell to the carpet.
“Whoa,” said Dean. “Cool!” He looked at Cas and Sam. “You guys OK? I heard yelling!”
As if in answer, Castiel’s eyes rolled up in his head. He crumpled to the floor, clutching at his chest.
“Cas!” Dean was there in an instant, cradling the angel’s head. He tore open his shirt and examined the cut Cas had taken from the umbrella spirit. He ran his flashlight over the bleeding wound. He looked up at Sam, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Is he OK?” asked Sam, hunkering down beside him.
“That’s weird. This wound is pretty superficial.”
He blinked as Cas’s stomach growled. Castiel shifted and moaned.
“OK, Dean, what the fuck!” said Sam, waving his arms. “I just…. I just nearly got killed by an umbrella! Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with Cas?”
“Broken wing,” said Dean, gesturing at Castiel. “You gonna help me get him outta here?”
“What?” asked Sam, who suddenly had all the pent up annoyance run right out of him.
“He busted a wing,” said Dean, looking up at Sam. “He seemed real weird about telling you, so I told him I'd keep quiet.”
“Why would he be weird about a wing?”
“I dunno,” said Dean. “He's an angel. They're weird about stuff.”
Sam studied Castiel for a moment. He laughed. “He broke a wing? I shouldn’t laugh, but you know what I was just thinking?”
“Really big shoebox? And a heating pad?” asked Dean.
“Yeah,” laughed Sam. “Only a hot water bottle.”
“Oh, yeah. That would work too.”
“A broken wing?” came the voice over the speaker.
“Yeah, Bobby,” said Dean. He and Sam were sitting on the cool concrete walkway outside their motel room.
“Damn. I can't think of nothing beyond a damn shoebox. A big damn shoebox.”
“And a heat pad?” asked Dean.
“Naw, you wanna use a hot water bottle. So it won't scorch 'em.”
Sam grinned and gave thumbs up.
“Seriously, Bobby, we're not sure what we should do,” said Dean, giving his brother the stinkeye.
“Well, what has he told you?” asked Bobby.
“He said all his angel mojo or whatever is tied up fixing it. So he can't do the usual zapping around. And … he's sleeping.”
“He's sleeping? Huh.” The other end of the phone was silent for a moment. “Is he eating?”
“No,” said Dean.
“But he looks hungry! He looks starving! I thought he was gonna beat you up over that piece of toast this morning,” said Sam.
“I offered it to him!” protested Dean.
“Well, I'd say, get some food into the kid, and pack him up and bring him back here. Did he say what hit him?”
“That's another thing. He can't remember.”
“That don't sound good. Like I said, get 'im back here.”
“OK, Bobby,” said Dean. He looked back into the motel room as he hung up. There was the sound of somebody moaning. He and Sam entered the room, pulling the door shut.
Castiel, who had been put down on one of the beds, was now sitting up, groggy, pulling at the bandage on his chest.
“Hey, hey,” said Dean, sitting down next to him. “Watch it. You'll pull out your floss.”
“What happened?” asked Cas.
“You sort of had a sword fight with an umbrella,” Sam told him. “You also saved me from having the world's stupidest tombstone.”
“What? Oh, yeah,” said Cas, running his fingers through his hair. “Think I remember....”
“You used that sword!” said Dean, pointing beside the bed.
Castlel glanced over to where Dean pointed. A katana was leaning against the wall by the bed. He leaned over and slipped his hand into the grip, and picked it up, turning the blade this way and that.
“This relic is stolen!” Castiel said at last.
“Uh, no, actually, that was the weird thing,” said Dean.
“Another weird thing,” said Sam.
“We left it,” said Dean. “We couldn't have taken it, we had to pack you out. But then when we came back here and got you settled, we noticed it was by your bed, just like that.”
“I think it likes you,” said Sam.
Cas raised an eyebrow. “I guess if the kasa obake was there, it's possible there were other magical relics.”
“Could be the owner was a magician, something like that,” said Dean.
“Could be,” agreed Cas, putting the sword back against the wall.
“So, anyway,” said Dean. “Uh. We talked to Bobby....”
“He knows, doesn't he?” asked Castiel miserably.
“Cas! Come on, we're not stupid,” said Sam. “And we were concerned.”
Castiel nodded. “I can't even repair this cut,” he said, putting a hand to his chest.
“Aw, that's why they make dental floss!” said Dean. “Anyway, we're gonna get rolling, back to Bobby's. But first we're gonna get some breakfast.”
“I'll just stay here,” said Cas.
“No. You're coming with. We're gonna get you breakfast, so you don't blank out on us again.”
“I do not need food,” declared Cas stubbornly. His stomach, of course, chose that exact moment to growl.
“You don't, but your vessel does. Come on.”
Castiel, glaring at no one in particular, swung his legs off the bed. He grabbed for his overcoat.
“Uh, Cas,” said Dean in warning. “I wouldn’t….”
“Oh, no!” said Castiel, regarding the large, bloody rip in the front of his coat. He held the torn coat across one arm, draped there like a body, and threw his other arm out in dispair. It was like a trench coat pieta tableau.
“Look, Cas, don't worry,” said Dean, grabbing the coat. “We'll get this fixed once we get to Bobby's,” he said, carefully folding it up.
“Dean, I don't think dental floss will work.”
“Hey, come on. We can loan you some clothes. We need to get some grub.”
Castiel stood in the diner’s waiting room area, knowing what he must do.
Capitulate to the inevitable.
This did not make the task any more pleasant. He decided to try for a distraction.
“Lamb of God? Are they a group of gospel musicians?” he asked hopefully, reading the T shirt Sam had loaned him as the hostess guided them to their usual table.
“I can't believe you're into that shit,” Dean told Sam.
“It was from a girl I dated,” laughed Sam. “And I know you'd give me shit, so I don't wear it.” They slid into the U-shaped booth, Cas at the back, a Winchester on either side of him.
“Wait, which girl? Do I know her?” Dean asked Sam. “He'll just have one of everything,” Dean told the waitress, hooking a thumb at Castiel.
“I will have just coffee,” said Castiel, although not with great conviction. They will never let me get away with it, he thought.
“Sure you don't want anything more, Sugar?” asked the waitress.
“Yeah, see,” Sam told her. “Our … cousin here has been sick, and he needs a good breakfast.”
“Yeah,” said Dean. “What's the best breakfast?”
The waitress suddenly got a twinkle in her eye. She grinned at Dean. “Pigs in a blanket!”
“Oh, hell yeah! Pigs in a blanket for cuz over there!” said Dean. “And gimme the grand slam.”
“Raspberry parfait and granola,” said Sam.
“Rabbit food,” snarked Dean as the waitress whisked off.
“Artery clogger,” countered Sam.
“Will they actually send the swine out to the table?” worried Cas.
Although the angel was relieved that his breakfast was merely a platter of pancakes, and that no barnyard animals were visible, he remained reluctant to actually consume anything, poking dubiously at the assemblage with his folk.
“Well, that’s not the way you eat pancakes anyway,” advised Dean. He reached over Castiel and grabbed his butter knife, took up a large dab of the whipped butter from the side of the plate, and slathered it on the pancakes. “You gotta do this first, while they’re warm, so it’ll melt right.”
Castiel sat back and observed. “Oh, a phase change is important?” he asked, folding his hands.
“And then,” added Dean, grabbing a small glass container of syrup, “you pour on the maple syrup!” He drizzled the mixture onto a corner of the pancakes, and then helped himself to a forkful. “Ah! Perfect.”
“Dean!” said Sam.
“What?” asked Dean, who was greedily digging into Cas’ breakfast while the angel sat back looking baffled.
Sam sighed, and picked up another syrup container. “He doesn’t want maple! He wants blueberry! Try this Cas,” he said, drizzling the viscous blue substance onto an empty corner of the pancakes. “See? See?” he said, using his own knife and fork to cut himself a nice sample. “Delicious.”
“You don’t even eat pancakes!” scolded Dean.
“I’m eating them now!” protested Sam through a mouthful. Each brother then defiantly grabbed another forkful, before they at last exchanged a glance, and then looked at Castiel.
“Uh,” said Sam.
“Go on,” said Dean, grabbing Cas’ fork and handing it to him. Castiel hefted the fork uncertainly. Yes, he thought despairingly, you’re just a human now, no better than them. So, like a good soldier, he cut a grudging, tiny sample of the pancake, from the area Dean had coated in maple syrup, and lifted it. He sniffed at it. He hadn’t really paid attention to the aromas of human food prior to this. He had to admit, this smelled not entirely unpleasant.
“Just eat it already,” grumped Dean. “I don’t wanna be here all morning!”
Cas obediently popped the pancake in his mouth and swallowed it whole. It slid down his throat, creating an odd, warm sensation.
He looked from Sam to Dean. “I…. I think I want more pancakes,” he told them in astonishment.
“We’ll order you more when you finish those,” said Dean, digging into his grand slam. “And we won’t let Sam ruin the next batch with blueberry crap.”
“Hey!” said Sam.
Castiel took a more reasonably sized bite from the blueberry syrup area, and this time remembered to chew. It was a weird sensation: instead of quenching his vessel’s appetite, this food appeared to inflame it, making him want to eat more. On the other hand, he reasoned, feeding his vessel could potentially free up more of his magic to repair himself. It was a sacrifice, yes. And dishonorable. But he would do what he must.
“You’re liking the blueberry?” asked Sam.
“Or course not,” said Dean. “He likes the maple.”
Castiel stuck his fork back on his plate. He retrieved it, but gawped. Situated on the end of his fork was a glistening piece of sausage.
“Oh, yeah, OK,” said Sam, shaking the ketchup bottle. “Now. Here’s how you eat sausage….”
“If you’re a pussy!” said Dean, grabbing the hot sauce.
Castiel smiled and chewed and watched as his plate filled with warring Winchester-borne condiments.
With a big breakfast settling in his vessel's stomach, Castiel felt a warm, drowsy sensation. It was not unlike the time he had been drunk, although he thought this rather more pleasant. He drifted off to sleep almost as soon as he lay down in the back of Dean's car and Dean had keyed the ignition.
He found himself standing on a cloud bank. Well, no, actually, he was standing in a room with dry ice fumes covering the floor. He was wearing a white robe. He had a pipe cleaner halo on his head, and a couple of paper wings taped to his back. In the background there stood an obviously false cardboard promenade labeled “The Pearly Gates.”
Cas sighed, tossing away the halo and tearing off the robe.
“Baby bro!”
Gabriel stopped short, finding himself looking down the blade of Castiel's katana.
“Uh. I don't remember this trick,” said Gabriel. “That's not an angel sword.”
“It's a Trickster sword,” smiled Castiel, jamming the point under Gabriel's chin.
“OK, OK,” said Gabriel, taking a step back. “I just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery!” he gushed, as he was suddenly holding a bouquet of flowers and a heart shaped box of candy with GET WELL written on the lid.
“Really?” said Castiel, scowling at Gabriel.
“No. I guess not really,” said Gabriel, as the presents suddenly disappeared from his hands, replaced by a harp. He strummed the harp, producing, oddly enough, the first chords from Smoke on the Water. “You’ve seen through my evil plans!”
“So, who else knows about me? Everyone?” moped Castiel.
“I don't know about...” said Gabriel, pointing upwards. “Those bitches can go fuck themselves. I heard it from a Tanuki. Woo doggie, those guys can gossip! Especially if you get some sake into them.”
“A yokai? We just confronted a malevolent spirit in the house of a Japanese magician,” Castiel told him.
“Oh, that's where you hijacked the shiny, shiny blade,” said Gabriel.
“Reportedly, it followed me home,” Castiel told him.
“Shit! Why did I never have a badass sword following me?” Gabriel complained.
“Maybe because you are an asshole?”
“You wound me little bro!” sighed Gabriel, gripping his heart dramatically. Then he seemed to become serious. Or at least as serious as Gabriel ever acted. “So, what happened?”
Castiel shook his head. “I wish I could recall. But I can't.”
“Shit. But if it was big enough to get you, it's gotta be....”
“...one of us?” Cas concluded.
“One of you,” said Gabriel sourly.
“As you know, I might not.... I might not be among angelkind.... Any more,” said Cas, his voice catching.
Castiel blinked. Gabriel was now standing right in front of him, hand cupping Cas's chin. “Might be for the best little bro. Angels are worthless shits.” He took a step back. “And you get to hang with those saucy Winchester boys! DA-AMN,” he said, gesturing with his hand as if he had just touched a hot stove.
“Maybe you're right,” said Castiel sadly. “Could you do me one favor, Gabriel? You know the pagan gods. If you hear anything else, could you let me know? I worry that we're all in danger.”
“Will do, kiddo,” said Gabriel, going back to his harp. “Hey, let's sing you an angelic lullaby!” he said, striking a chord.
Cas' eyes popped open to the Metallica riff.
“Oh, sorry, Cas!” said Dean from the front seat. “Too loud?”
“No. That was, as you've said, good timing, Dean,” said Castiel.
“What’s up with the candy and flowers?” asked Sam.
Cas scowled. Gabriel’s candy and flowers were now sitting in the back window. He opened the lid of the GET WELL box, and passed it up to the guys in the front seat. “From my brother,” he said settling back against the side of the car.
“What? Which brother?” asked Sam.
“Gabriel,” said Castiel. He rolled up the jacket Dean had loaned him and propped it against the window like a pillow.
“Great,” said Dean, grabbing a handful of peanut clusters.
“You’re gonna eat Trickster candy?” Sam asked Dean.
“Hey, he’s a useless prick, but he knows his candy,” munched Dean.
Cas didn’t hear, as he was already drifting off again.
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/115680.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing.
Word Count: 5,000 this chapter
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later.
Sam frowned over his yogurt parfait with granola.
It was day three of this bullshit. And he was getting curious.
And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?
Yeah.
Cas, over on the other side of the booth, held a cup of coffee. Because even though he routinely refused food, Sam and Dean made him order a cup of coffee so he wouldn't look like a complete douche.
Dean, deep in the back of the U-shaped booth, was cramming his greasy six egg Spanish omelet into his face. Sam was pretty sure he could literally hear his brother’s arteries hardening.
But it was Cas who intrigued him. Sam had made a rule for himself concerning his brother and his angelic guardian: don't ask. Because, between the two of them … well, it just seemed less of a headache to stay out of it.
But it had been three days - 72 hours - and now he was getting curious.
And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?
Cas himself wasn't the problem. He didn't eat anything, so it wasn't as if he was costing them anything but maybe the extra drag on the Impala. And Dean, who'd been in a bitchy mood lately, was definitely cheerier with the angel around. And Cas, you had to admit, was pretty fucking useful. If you wanted somebody to shut up and go through the microfilms from 1905 to the present looking for signs of werewolf activity, he would shut up and do it. Even if the newspaper articles were in Japanese. As Cas had explained it, Japanese was just a language. Well, that didn’t make one bit of logical sense, but OK. And then he had rattled off something about the Tower of Babel, but that's when Sam started to tune out.
Sam just wasn't sure what the deal was, though. Why did Cas bother looking? Why didn't he just do his angel thing? Twitch his nose, or whatever.
And the other thing: he didn't look well. Sam wasn't quite sure what it was, but he had looked shaky that morning when he popped up in that motel room, and he didn't look any better now. In fact, he looked worse, sort of pale and drawn. If he'd been a real human, you would have told him to go to bed for a couple days.
And that was yet another thing: he slept! The first night Sam had found him sacked out in the car, so Sam got some pillows and a blanket and had him sleep on the floor instead. And then they'd just got a cot for him the next night.
Angels don't sleep.
It had gone beyond obvious, to where it was becoming a war of wills between Sam and Dean: Sam wouldn’t ask, and Dean wouldn’t say. But, damn, how stupid did they think he was?
“Casa de what?” slurped Dean, a bit of egg on the corner of his mouth. Sam, annoyed, reached over and flicked it off.
“Kasa obake,” said Cas, who appeared to be warming his hands on his coffee mug.
Castiel looked up at the waitress, who snapped her gum and asked, “Need a warm up, Sugar?”
Cas nodded, and the waitress tipped more coffee into the mug. When she had walked off, he leaned over and asked, “Why does she continually refer to me as ‘Sugar?’ She and I are not acquainted.”
“Think she likes you, Cas,” smiled Dean. Cas looked baffled. “So what’s a casa de whatever?”
“It is basically an enchanted parasol.”
“We’re fighting a magic umbrella?” asked Sam, sputtering raspberry parfait.
“Yes, it doesn’t make sense does it?” agreed Castiel. “They are reputed by legend as benign entities.”
“The umbrellas?” asked Dean, smiling as if this was all a joke. “They’re good Jedi umbrellas, and not evil Sith umbrellas?”
“This is funny?” grouched Sam.
“Maybe it would be funnier if you had a funny breakfast?” mused Dean. “Like some real food?”
“This is real food,” said Sam. But both brothers looked over to the soft growling noise.
Castiel was staring downwards, holding his stomach as if it were guilty of a great act of betrayal. “Why…. Why did it do that?”
“You’re hungry, dude,” said Dean.
“I thought angels didn’t eat,” put in Sam suspiciously.
“Yes, Sam is right, I do not require food,” said Castiel defiantly.
“Aw, c’mon, Cas. I piece of toast wouldn’t kill you,” said Dean, putting some rye toast on a small plate and sliding it over in front of Castiel.
Sam watched Castiel, who stared at the toast. He could swear he could see the angel salivating. But then Cas was pushing it away. “Thank you, Dean. That isn’t needed.” He straightened up in his seat. “There is a belief in Japanese folklore,” he continued, “that inanimate objects which have existed for a period of over a century acquire a spirit.”
“Oh, so ancient stuff? Like our waitress?” asked Dean.
Sam guffawed. He couldn’t help it. Stupid Dean.
“She is a human being, and so is imbued with a soul,” Cas was explaining. He looked back and forth at Sam and Dean. “Oh. It’s a joke.”
“It’s a joke, son,” said Dean, grabbing the toast he had set aside for Cas and cramming it all in his mouth.
Cas gulped, gazing at the toast, and licked his lips.
Something, thought Sam, is not right.
This had been the center of Japantown.
Once. Before California had decided that wartime patriotism entailed rounding up a bunch of American citizens and sending them off to internment camps.
Some Japanese neighborhoods in the big cities bounced back after the war, after the madness was over.
Some, in the small towns, did not.
The proprietor of this building, an elderly man of some wealth, had been trucked off to Manzanar, never to return. Heart attack, according to what Sam and Cas had been able to dig up. Or maybe a stroke. Record keeping wasn’t great. Anyway, evidently as the man had no children, the proper heir was never identified, and so after a decade or two of bickering, the once opulent mansion was boarded up and then forgotten.
“So, is this the kinda place you go to look for a vengeful umbrella?” asked Sam.
“All of the attacks seem to center around this vicinity,” Castiel reported. “And any relics inside would be of the appropriate age. The mansion was constructed around the turn of the last century, so objects inside could potentially be over 100 years in age.”
Sam thought about trying to pick the rusty padlock on the back door, but finally ended up just whacking it with a hammer. It crumbled.
“I dunno,” said Dean. “It doesn’t even look like people bother to break in any more. I think this is a dead end.”
“There are several broken windows up above,” Castiel pointed out, indicating the third and fourth floors. It was one big ass mansion. “They would provide egress.”
“That’s kinda high,” said Dean.
“But it’s an umbrella,” argued Sam. “I mean they … float. Or, something. Cas?” he asked, flapping his hands like wings.
Castiel scowled. “That’s not funny, Sam,” he grumbled, opening the door and stalking inside.
“What did I say?” Sam whispered to Dean.
“Later,” mouthed Dean.
They followed the angel into the building. “Whoa!” said Dean, looking up at the high ceilings. And then, “WHOA!” he reiterated, racing over to a dusty glass case. “Is that real samurai armor?” he asked, rubbing a jacket cuff over the layer of dust on the front of the case.
“Based on the time period, it would appear to be authentic,” Castiel informed them.
“This is the most awesome house ever,” swooned Dean.
“Look,” said Sam, directing his flashlight around in the dimness, “this is a pretty big place. Maybe we should divide and conquer?”
“Sounds good!” said Dean. “OK, you start in the basement, Sam, and work up,” he said, shining his flashlight at a dark stairway headed downstairs. “Cas and I will head upstairs and work our way down,” he said, pointing the light at the main staircase. “And we'll meet in the middle.”
Sam scowled. “Why don't I go upstairs with Cas, and you go downstairs?”
Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and sauntered over to the basement stairs.
Sam stared after his brother for a moment and then, nodding at Cas, walked towards the main staircase. They climbed all the way up to the top.
“Boy, Dean is gonna be disappointed he went down instead of up,” said Sam, surveying a glass display case full of katana mounted on a table at the top floor landing. Sam ran a hand over the glass covering the lovely swords. “He loves this samurai crap.”
“You requested going upstairs,” stated Cas.
Ignoring the implied question, Sam said, “Why don't you go thataway, and I'll go this way?” he proposed, sending his light up and down the hallway.
“All right,” said Castiel. He also carried a flashlight, but hadn't bothered to ignite it. “Be careful,” he warned as he walked down the darkened hall.
“What do you do against a monster umbrella?” asked Sam as he watched the angel go. “A silver umbrella stand?” he asked himself. He shrugged and headed off in the opposite direction from Castiel. He paused. Was that a rustling sound? It could be mice. On the other hand....
He crept quietly down the hall, stopping at each door to listen. When he had gotten almost to the end, he heard it again. It was a soft rustling.
Gripping his flashlight like a club, Sam tried the doorknob. He silently twisted it and then suddenly threw open the door, shining his flashlight around the room.
The room's windows were all boarded up, but he noticed the boards covering one of the windows had come loose, so moonlight shown into the room, giving it a slightly spooky light.
And the rustling sound. He immediately aimed his flashlight over to the corner. Nothing was moving right now, so he went over and squatted down. Mouse droppings, he thought. He ran the light along the baseboard, and saw the small crack in the wall. They were chasing a rodent.
Sam blinked. The moonlight suddenly dimmed, as if obscured by a cloud. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck.
And then a soft sound. It was like, snikt, snikt.
He turned.
There it was slightly above him, hanging in the air: an umbrella.
An old, broken umbrella, the cover nearly rotted through, metal ribs sticking everywhere.
And it was … sticking its tongue out at him.
“Uhhhh,” said Sam, shining his flashlight in what appeared to be its single eye. “Konnichiwa?”
And then it was at him, twirling, broken ribs slashing at him. With a scream of, “Cas!” Sam dove out of the way and then scrambled out of the door and went running down the hallway. The thing slashed at him, ripping the back of his jacket, and sending him reeling. He ran back down the hallway and dove behind the display case of samurai swords on the strirway landing, but the thing, like a big mechanical spider, kept coming after him.
Sam was on his back behind the display case, the ghoulish umbrella on the other side. He kicked out with his legs and brought over the display case, smashing the glass. And, he hoped, pulverizing one evil umbrella.
There was silence for a moment. He got to his feet, picking through the broken glass and spilled swords, looking in vain for the remains of his opponent.
Then he heard the snicking sound - snikt, snikt - right in back of him.
He turned and dove out of the way, but this time the thing had him cornered, his back to the wall.
Sam cringed, thinking only Here lies Sam Winchester, killed by a vengeful umbrella. He would have the world’s stupidest epitath! He threw up his hands to cover his face.
And then there was a clash of metal. Sam opened his eyes. Cas stood in front of him. The angel held a blade in his hand: one of the priceless samurai swords from the display. And he was using it to … fence was the only word for it, with the umbrella.
It slashed out with its ribs, which Cas was awkwardly parrying. The samurai sword was a lot longer than the angel blade he normally used, and it seemed to faze him. But it also seemed to annoy the umbrella, which Sam could swear was sticking its idiotic long pink tongue out even farther than before.
The blade and umbrella tines clashed and clashed again. Cas cried out as a tine slashed down his front, making a good rip in his trenchcoat. He jumped back and returned a flurry from the umbrella. And then, almost by mistake it seemed, he landed a slash across the beast’s tongue. He had amputated the tip, and the beast suddenly squealed, spurting blood.
“Cas!” said Sam, who leapt to his feet. “The eye! Aim for the eye!”
Castiel nodded grimly, the front of his shirt and overcoat now a red gash. He charged the umbrella, and there was a furious exchange. Sam, who had lost his flashlight back in the room, saw only steel on steel, glinting in the sliver of moonlight.
And then there was a piercing shriek. The umbrella, a blade lodged squarely in its one eye, whirled and cried. Sam noticed Cas was standing beside him, breathing hard.
“Guys!” yelled Dean, who had just arrived in the doorway. “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed, watching the wounded umbrella.
The kasa obake shuddered, and then erupted into flame.
There was a soft thud as the bloody samurai sword fell to the carpet.
“Whoa,” said Dean. “Cool!” He looked at Cas and Sam. “You guys OK? I heard yelling!”
As if in answer, Castiel’s eyes rolled up in his head. He crumpled to the floor, clutching at his chest.
“Cas!” Dean was there in an instant, cradling the angel’s head. He tore open his shirt and examined the cut Cas had taken from the umbrella spirit. He ran his flashlight over the bleeding wound. He looked up at Sam, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Is he OK?” asked Sam, hunkering down beside him.
“That’s weird. This wound is pretty superficial.”
He blinked as Cas’s stomach growled. Castiel shifted and moaned.
“OK, Dean, what the fuck!” said Sam, waving his arms. “I just…. I just nearly got killed by an umbrella! Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with Cas?”
“Broken wing,” said Dean, gesturing at Castiel. “You gonna help me get him outta here?”
“What?” asked Sam, who suddenly had all the pent up annoyance run right out of him.
“He busted a wing,” said Dean, looking up at Sam. “He seemed real weird about telling you, so I told him I'd keep quiet.”
“Why would he be weird about a wing?”
“I dunno,” said Dean. “He's an angel. They're weird about stuff.”
Sam studied Castiel for a moment. He laughed. “He broke a wing? I shouldn’t laugh, but you know what I was just thinking?”
“Really big shoebox? And a heating pad?” asked Dean.
“Yeah,” laughed Sam. “Only a hot water bottle.”
“Oh, yeah. That would work too.”
“A broken wing?” came the voice over the speaker.
“Yeah, Bobby,” said Dean. He and Sam were sitting on the cool concrete walkway outside their motel room.
“Damn. I can't think of nothing beyond a damn shoebox. A big damn shoebox.”
“And a heat pad?” asked Dean.
“Naw, you wanna use a hot water bottle. So it won't scorch 'em.”
Sam grinned and gave thumbs up.
“Seriously, Bobby, we're not sure what we should do,” said Dean, giving his brother the stinkeye.
“Well, what has he told you?” asked Bobby.
“He said all his angel mojo or whatever is tied up fixing it. So he can't do the usual zapping around. And … he's sleeping.”
“He's sleeping? Huh.” The other end of the phone was silent for a moment. “Is he eating?”
“No,” said Dean.
“But he looks hungry! He looks starving! I thought he was gonna beat you up over that piece of toast this morning,” said Sam.
“I offered it to him!” protested Dean.
“Well, I'd say, get some food into the kid, and pack him up and bring him back here. Did he say what hit him?”
“That's another thing. He can't remember.”
“That don't sound good. Like I said, get 'im back here.”
“OK, Bobby,” said Dean. He looked back into the motel room as he hung up. There was the sound of somebody moaning. He and Sam entered the room, pulling the door shut.
Castiel, who had been put down on one of the beds, was now sitting up, groggy, pulling at the bandage on his chest.
“Hey, hey,” said Dean, sitting down next to him. “Watch it. You'll pull out your floss.”
“What happened?” asked Cas.
“You sort of had a sword fight with an umbrella,” Sam told him. “You also saved me from having the world's stupidest tombstone.”
“What? Oh, yeah,” said Cas, running his fingers through his hair. “Think I remember....”
“You used that sword!” said Dean, pointing beside the bed.
Castlel glanced over to where Dean pointed. A katana was leaning against the wall by the bed. He leaned over and slipped his hand into the grip, and picked it up, turning the blade this way and that.
“This relic is stolen!” Castiel said at last.
“Uh, no, actually, that was the weird thing,” said Dean.
“Another weird thing,” said Sam.
“We left it,” said Dean. “We couldn't have taken it, we had to pack you out. But then when we came back here and got you settled, we noticed it was by your bed, just like that.”
“I think it likes you,” said Sam.
Cas raised an eyebrow. “I guess if the kasa obake was there, it's possible there were other magical relics.”
“Could be the owner was a magician, something like that,” said Dean.
“Could be,” agreed Cas, putting the sword back against the wall.
“So, anyway,” said Dean. “Uh. We talked to Bobby....”
“He knows, doesn't he?” asked Castiel miserably.
“Cas! Come on, we're not stupid,” said Sam. “And we were concerned.”
Castiel nodded. “I can't even repair this cut,” he said, putting a hand to his chest.
“Aw, that's why they make dental floss!” said Dean. “Anyway, we're gonna get rolling, back to Bobby's. But first we're gonna get some breakfast.”
“I'll just stay here,” said Cas.
“No. You're coming with. We're gonna get you breakfast, so you don't blank out on us again.”
“I do not need food,” declared Cas stubbornly. His stomach, of course, chose that exact moment to growl.
“You don't, but your vessel does. Come on.”
Castiel, glaring at no one in particular, swung his legs off the bed. He grabbed for his overcoat.
“Uh, Cas,” said Dean in warning. “I wouldn’t….”
“Oh, no!” said Castiel, regarding the large, bloody rip in the front of his coat. He held the torn coat across one arm, draped there like a body, and threw his other arm out in dispair. It was like a trench coat pieta tableau.
“Look, Cas, don't worry,” said Dean, grabbing the coat. “We'll get this fixed once we get to Bobby's,” he said, carefully folding it up.
“Dean, I don't think dental floss will work.”
“Hey, come on. We can loan you some clothes. We need to get some grub.”
Castiel stood in the diner’s waiting room area, knowing what he must do.
Capitulate to the inevitable.
This did not make the task any more pleasant. He decided to try for a distraction.
“Lamb of God? Are they a group of gospel musicians?” he asked hopefully, reading the T shirt Sam had loaned him as the hostess guided them to their usual table.
“I can't believe you're into that shit,” Dean told Sam.
“It was from a girl I dated,” laughed Sam. “And I know you'd give me shit, so I don't wear it.” They slid into the U-shaped booth, Cas at the back, a Winchester on either side of him.
“Wait, which girl? Do I know her?” Dean asked Sam. “He'll just have one of everything,” Dean told the waitress, hooking a thumb at Castiel.
“I will have just coffee,” said Castiel, although not with great conviction. They will never let me get away with it, he thought.
“Sure you don't want anything more, Sugar?” asked the waitress.
“Yeah, see,” Sam told her. “Our … cousin here has been sick, and he needs a good breakfast.”
“Yeah,” said Dean. “What's the best breakfast?”
The waitress suddenly got a twinkle in her eye. She grinned at Dean. “Pigs in a blanket!”
“Oh, hell yeah! Pigs in a blanket for cuz over there!” said Dean. “And gimme the grand slam.”
“Raspberry parfait and granola,” said Sam.
“Rabbit food,” snarked Dean as the waitress whisked off.
“Artery clogger,” countered Sam.
“Will they actually send the swine out to the table?” worried Cas.
Although the angel was relieved that his breakfast was merely a platter of pancakes, and that no barnyard animals were visible, he remained reluctant to actually consume anything, poking dubiously at the assemblage with his folk.
“Well, that’s not the way you eat pancakes anyway,” advised Dean. He reached over Castiel and grabbed his butter knife, took up a large dab of the whipped butter from the side of the plate, and slathered it on the pancakes. “You gotta do this first, while they’re warm, so it’ll melt right.”
Castiel sat back and observed. “Oh, a phase change is important?” he asked, folding his hands.
“And then,” added Dean, grabbing a small glass container of syrup, “you pour on the maple syrup!” He drizzled the mixture onto a corner of the pancakes, and then helped himself to a forkful. “Ah! Perfect.”
“Dean!” said Sam.
“What?” asked Dean, who was greedily digging into Cas’ breakfast while the angel sat back looking baffled.
Sam sighed, and picked up another syrup container. “He doesn’t want maple! He wants blueberry! Try this Cas,” he said, drizzling the viscous blue substance onto an empty corner of the pancakes. “See? See?” he said, using his own knife and fork to cut himself a nice sample. “Delicious.”
“You don’t even eat pancakes!” scolded Dean.
“I’m eating them now!” protested Sam through a mouthful. Each brother then defiantly grabbed another forkful, before they at last exchanged a glance, and then looked at Castiel.
“Uh,” said Sam.
“Go on,” said Dean, grabbing Cas’ fork and handing it to him. Castiel hefted the fork uncertainly. Yes, he thought despairingly, you’re just a human now, no better than them. So, like a good soldier, he cut a grudging, tiny sample of the pancake, from the area Dean had coated in maple syrup, and lifted it. He sniffed at it. He hadn’t really paid attention to the aromas of human food prior to this. He had to admit, this smelled not entirely unpleasant.
“Just eat it already,” grumped Dean. “I don’t wanna be here all morning!”
Cas obediently popped the pancake in his mouth and swallowed it whole. It slid down his throat, creating an odd, warm sensation.
He looked from Sam to Dean. “I…. I think I want more pancakes,” he told them in astonishment.
“We’ll order you more when you finish those,” said Dean, digging into his grand slam. “And we won’t let Sam ruin the next batch with blueberry crap.”
“Hey!” said Sam.
Castiel took a more reasonably sized bite from the blueberry syrup area, and this time remembered to chew. It was a weird sensation: instead of quenching his vessel’s appetite, this food appeared to inflame it, making him want to eat more. On the other hand, he reasoned, feeding his vessel could potentially free up more of his magic to repair himself. It was a sacrifice, yes. And dishonorable. But he would do what he must.
“You’re liking the blueberry?” asked Sam.
“Or course not,” said Dean. “He likes the maple.”
Castiel stuck his fork back on his plate. He retrieved it, but gawped. Situated on the end of his fork was a glistening piece of sausage.
“Oh, yeah, OK,” said Sam, shaking the ketchup bottle. “Now. Here’s how you eat sausage….”
“If you’re a pussy!” said Dean, grabbing the hot sauce.
Castiel smiled and chewed and watched as his plate filled with warring Winchester-borne condiments.
With a big breakfast settling in his vessel's stomach, Castiel felt a warm, drowsy sensation. It was not unlike the time he had been drunk, although he thought this rather more pleasant. He drifted off to sleep almost as soon as he lay down in the back of Dean's car and Dean had keyed the ignition.
He found himself standing on a cloud bank. Well, no, actually, he was standing in a room with dry ice fumes covering the floor. He was wearing a white robe. He had a pipe cleaner halo on his head, and a couple of paper wings taped to his back. In the background there stood an obviously false cardboard promenade labeled “The Pearly Gates.”
Cas sighed, tossing away the halo and tearing off the robe.
“Baby bro!”
Gabriel stopped short, finding himself looking down the blade of Castiel's katana.
“Uh. I don't remember this trick,” said Gabriel. “That's not an angel sword.”
“It's a Trickster sword,” smiled Castiel, jamming the point under Gabriel's chin.
“OK, OK,” said Gabriel, taking a step back. “I just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery!” he gushed, as he was suddenly holding a bouquet of flowers and a heart shaped box of candy with GET WELL written on the lid.
“Really?” said Castiel, scowling at Gabriel.
“No. I guess not really,” said Gabriel, as the presents suddenly disappeared from his hands, replaced by a harp. He strummed the harp, producing, oddly enough, the first chords from Smoke on the Water. “You’ve seen through my evil plans!”
“So, who else knows about me? Everyone?” moped Castiel.
“I don't know about...” said Gabriel, pointing upwards. “Those bitches can go fuck themselves. I heard it from a Tanuki. Woo doggie, those guys can gossip! Especially if you get some sake into them.”
“A yokai? We just confronted a malevolent spirit in the house of a Japanese magician,” Castiel told him.
“Oh, that's where you hijacked the shiny, shiny blade,” said Gabriel.
“Reportedly, it followed me home,” Castiel told him.
“Shit! Why did I never have a badass sword following me?” Gabriel complained.
“Maybe because you are an asshole?”
“You wound me little bro!” sighed Gabriel, gripping his heart dramatically. Then he seemed to become serious. Or at least as serious as Gabriel ever acted. “So, what happened?”
Castiel shook his head. “I wish I could recall. But I can't.”
“Shit. But if it was big enough to get you, it's gotta be....”
“...one of us?” Cas concluded.
“One of you,” said Gabriel sourly.
“As you know, I might not.... I might not be among angelkind.... Any more,” said Cas, his voice catching.
Castiel blinked. Gabriel was now standing right in front of him, hand cupping Cas's chin. “Might be for the best little bro. Angels are worthless shits.” He took a step back. “And you get to hang with those saucy Winchester boys! DA-AMN,” he said, gesturing with his hand as if he had just touched a hot stove.
“Maybe you're right,” said Castiel sadly. “Could you do me one favor, Gabriel? You know the pagan gods. If you hear anything else, could you let me know? I worry that we're all in danger.”
“Will do, kiddo,” said Gabriel, going back to his harp. “Hey, let's sing you an angelic lullaby!” he said, striking a chord.
Cas' eyes popped open to the Metallica riff.
“Oh, sorry, Cas!” said Dean from the front seat. “Too loud?”
“No. That was, as you've said, good timing, Dean,” said Castiel.
“What’s up with the candy and flowers?” asked Sam.
Cas scowled. Gabriel’s candy and flowers were now sitting in the back window. He opened the lid of the GET WELL box, and passed it up to the guys in the front seat. “From my brother,” he said settling back against the side of the car.
“What? Which brother?” asked Sam.
“Gabriel,” said Castiel. He rolled up the jacket Dean had loaned him and propped it against the window like a pillow.
“Great,” said Dean, grabbing a handful of peanut clusters.
“You’re gonna eat Trickster candy?” Sam asked Dean.
“Hey, he’s a useless prick, but he knows his candy,” munched Dean.
Cas didn’t hear, as he was already drifting off again.
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